


Mirror Mirror

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, F/M, Magical Artifacts, Male Friendship, Mary isn't nice, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mirror made John feel uncomfortable. It was almost as if the mirror was watching them. Watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror Mirror

Mary purchased the mirror in a second hand shop. She was outfitting their new flat. The mirror was huge, massive in fact, practically the size of a door. The men who delivered it could barely get it up the stairs to the bedroom. They put it down and as they were leaving, one gave John a ‘sorry, mate’ and the other slapped him on the back.

John and Mary Watson had been married for a few months and were still sorting out their new lives together. They hadn’t lived together before the wedding, and except for weekend sleepovers, a few trips and the honeymoon, this was the first time they had to share space.

John was an Army doctor who had been invalided home from Afghanistan after he’d ben wounded. He was working in the A&E department of St. Bartholomew’s and thinking of opening his own practice. But, only because Mary suggested it. Deep down he knew he would miss the trauma cases and the excitement of never knowing what was going to come through the ambulance bay doors. To tell the truth, he missed being in a combat zone and the A&E was as close as he could come to replicating that in civilian life. He was 30.

Mary Morstan worked as a home stager. That meant she picked out nice things to put in other people’s homes that were for sale so that the property showed well. She was possibly a little more in love with the idea of being married to a doctor that actually being in love with the doctor. Her mother had drilled it into her from a young age, “Marry anybody you want, so long as he’s a doctor.” Her mother figured a doctor would be rich and able to take care of her baby girl, and herself, by extension. She was 27.

Mary had caught herself a doctor who cared nothing about making money and cared everything about his patients.

“You hate it, don’t you.” Mary was crestfallen. From the moment she laid eyes on the full-length mirror, she knew she had to have it. The frame was ornate, crawling with curlicues and flowering vines. There were birds, bugs and dear God, a dirty big snake carved into the dark wood. 

“I don’t hate it, Mary. Its just, its just so big. Where’d it come from? Buckingham Palace or Versailles?” He stood before it looking at himself. It made him feel small. “I’m a little worried about what you paid for it.” How can anything that cost 400 quid be second hand? John was speechless at the purchase. “Where are we going to put it?”

“It was a steal, John. It’s over a hundred years old! The man a the shop told me it came out of family estate years ago and he’d had it in storage until last week.” She took John over to the mirror and pointed out the date, ‘1895’, carved into one corner. “400 pounds was a great price, really. We are both working. We can afford it”

“Okay, okay. You got a bargain. But, seriously, where are we going to put it? Its huge.” He put his hands on his hips and tipped his head to the side, taking it all in.

“I thought we could turn it lengthwise and hang it over our bed.” She really did look excited about the mirror.

“And have it come loose some night and kill us in our sleep? I don’t fancy being crushed and cut to ribbons by a gigantic mirror. No.” He put his hand on her cheek. “What about just leaving it where it is? It seems to fit there fine.”

‘There’ being the wall opposite the foot of their bed. It was leaning against the wall and reflected the bed, making it look like there was a doorway to an adjoining room.

“It does make the room look bigger. We can try it there for a while.” Mary kissed John on the cheek and hugged him. Smiling she said, “We can see all of both of us in it.”

He pulled her in closer and buried his face in her blond curls, “Yes, we can.” He tugged at the zip at the back of her dress. 

“John, it’s the middle of the day!” Mary squealed and wriggled as he pushed the dress off of her shoulders and trailed kisses down her neck.

John slipped off her bra, “So what?” he mumbled against the skin of her left breast. “Can’t I fuck my wife in the middle of the day?” He sucked the nipple into his mouth and worked it into a hard nub with his tongue. Mary moaned and dug her fingers into his hair. “It seems like my wife wants to be fucked in the middle of the day.”

Soon their clothes were in a pile on the floor. John had her on the edge of the bed and was between her legs, licking her, bringing to the edge of orgasm. 

Breathlessly she told him, “Come up here and put your cock in me.” The reflection of them naked and entwined in the mirror held Mary’s gaze and it turned her on. She couldn’t take her eyes off of it and came almost as soon as John was inside her, calling his name. He followed, practically bending Mary in half but he couldn’t look at the reflection.

“Oh, God John. The mirror stays where it is,” Mary said as John withdrew. She rolled towards it to look at herself; pink blush on her cheeks and chest, mussed hair and John’s hand flung over her hip.

The mirror made John feel uncomfortable. It was almost as if the mirror was watching them. Watching _him_.


	2. In A Glass, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John was slipping to sleep, his conscious mind drifting along the surface of dreams, he heard music.

The mirror sat where it had been left by the deliverymen. That was three weeks ago. It still made John uncomfortable.

He did his best to ignore it, which was damned hard considering how big the bloody thing was. He never checked his appearance in it ever. He never looked at it while he was making love to Mary – she, on the other hand couldn’t keep her eyes off of it. He was starting to think her a bit vain and shallow. 

The first time he noticed something odd about the mirror, he had come home from a shift at Bart’s A&E department to find Mary, sound asleep. It wasn’t terribly late, not even eleven. He was quiet as he hung his jacket up and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Having satisfied the rumbles in his stomach, he realized how tired he was. All he wanted was a shower and some sleep. 

He had to walk past the mirror to get to the bathroom. As he did he glanced down at the date in the corner of the frame. And stopped dead in his tracks.

What the fuck? He backed up and looked again. The glass was clear and dutifully reflected his image and the room behind him. He thought he saw a foot step just out of view as he went by. And not his foot; this one had been bare. He still had on his socks.

“I must be more tired that I thought.” Rubbing his hands through his hair he continued into he bathroom for his shower. He undressed and once the water had warmed, he stepped into the spray. The water ran over his tired body, relaxing him. 

John thought over his day, which was fairly interesting. A Japanese tourist group came in with food poisoning, vomiting everywhere. There was a case of hives, a chemical burn, a man who nailed his thumb to a board and a baby born in a cab right outside the hospital doors.

The worst part of the day was the 8 year-old boy with a broken wrist. It turned out to be a case of child abuse. He’d caught it while looking the child’s x-rays. There was evidence of a previous fracture in the same arm, so he’d asked for the child’s records. This particular little boy had, in his short life, already broken both arms, had a concussion, broken ribs, teeth knocked out and fingers broken. All of which the mother had explained away with stories of falls off of bikes or out of trees or wrestling with friends. There was a series of scars under his arm that could only have come from a burning cigarette. He knew the mother smoked, her fingers were stained from nicotine and she had fine, wrinkled lines radiating away from her lips. The police were called in and he was commended for his observation. The boy was taken into protective custody and the mother arrested.

Why anybody would want to hurt a child? It made him sick.  
He shut off the water and toweled off. He cleaned his teeth, put on clean pants and t-shirt and crawled into bed. 

Mary woke up, “Hi, long day?” She rolled towards him and tangled her legs with his.

“Yeah. Busy. There was a little boy who came in with a broken wrist. Turned out his mother broke it. His own mum. She’d done it before, too. He’s 8. She’s supposed to take care of him. We called the police and she was arrested.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry. Will he be alright?” She touched his cheek.

“Yeah. I hope so. He’s in protective custody and they are going to try and place him with a relative.” He turned to draw Mary into a hug. “I’m glad I figured out what was happening to him.” He kissed her.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better?” Mary pressed herself against his body and, as it turned out, there were several things she did that made John feel better.

As John was slipping to sleep, his conscious mind drifting along the surface of dreams, he heard music. A violin. Maybe one of the neighbors was playing their stereo too loud. 

His mind was in that place where reality and dreams mingled and blended. _It must be the people next door, sure. I can hear them when they argue_. He could hear the bow being drawn across the strings, the sounds of fingers as they moved along the fingerboard. _No, just a dream then, too much detail_. Still the violin played on, the music drifting closer, getting clearer, then moving away. Like the person is pacing while they played. _That’s what is happening. They are restless_. 

His mind added the sounds of bare footsteps on the floor and the rustle of clothing. The music was nice. John didn’t know much about classical music, he just knew that he liked whatever his brain was reproducing for him. He must have heard it before. _Of course I have. I know this song. Its Marvin Gaye, “What’s Goin’ On.”_

John’s last thoughts before sleep dragged him under were, _It must have been his foot I saw. He looks so sad. The music must be making him sad_.


	3. Absent Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” John was keen to know what name his mind would make up for this apparition.

Mary was off at work, staging a huge loft-style flat that was going to be the model in a new building full of expensive loft flats. She was gone more and more and for longer stretches of time.

Every now and then Mary would gently pester John about quitting the A&E job and opening his own private practice. He knew that wouldn’t work for him, he would be bored. John also knew that his mother-in-law was probably behind the suggestion. She was hoping her daughter’s doctor husband would be taking care of her in her dotage. The thought made John cringe.

They hadn’t been married that long, almost a year, but they had know each other since he was in medical school. John was beginning to think she had only gone to Uni to get her “M.r.s.” degree. They had dated on and off for a couple of years and while they were on a break, John began to see someone else. This made Mary more determined than ever to be “Mrs. John H. Watson, M.D.” 

What John didn’t know was that she had convinced him to come back to her using the oldest trick in the book – she faked a pregnancy. It had worked. Responsible, dependable, upstanding John came back, got down on one knee and proposed. After convenient faked miscarriage, that had honestly broken his heart, many tears and “I’m-so-sorry-Mary-we-will-have-kids-someday” promises from John, they stayed together. 

He joined the Army and was sent to Afghanistan. That was the best, and worst, time in his life. John was a damned good doctor. He was calm and kept his head while the world fell apart routinely around him. He cared for his men and they knew it. They respected him for it. 

Then, one excruciatingly hot day on a run of the mill average patrol, he got shot. He felt the round slam into his shoulder like an iron fist, but his brain didn’t register what had happened. There was not much pain initially. Then he tried to get up; the pain bloomed and spread like a hungry animal. It felt as if someone had set him on fire from the inside. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t get up, he couldn’t stay conscious. “Please God, let me see Mary again.” The bullet had passed through the photograph he carried of her in his shirt pocket. The bullet punched a hole in one of her creamy, dimpled cheeks.

He did live. He woke in a field hospital wrapped in bandages and full of drugs. The pain was not so intense, but it was still with him. He could breathe a little better, but knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. There was the threat of infection or worse, pulmonary embolism. Doctors make the worst patients because they know too much about their own condition.

After weeks in hospital working on recovering and getting a full range of motion back in his arm, he was discharged from the Army and went home to London.

He and Mary wed soon after and moved to the flat in Southwick Street. It wasn’t cheap, but they both were working. John took a job at St. Thomas’ Hospital, just a 15 minute tube ride away. He could walk the distance in about an hour, so he did that most days. 

Today, John finally had a day off, all alone, to do whatever he wanted. He made coffee, ate his breakfast and showered. Then he discovered he had no idea what he wanted to do. Well, get dressed at the very least, he thought to himself. He was standing half-way in the door to the closet, hanging up his robe when he heard it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” A deep baritone voice intoned from behind John. “Please don’t tell me we’ve gotten into that mess again. Tedious.” 

John just about jumped out of his skin. Spinning on his heels he expected to see his reflection in the absurd mirror. Instead he saw a man that couldn’t possibly be real. He was looking out at John, from inside the mirror.

“What?” He was too stunned to say anything else.

“Your wound, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asked again. He was tall and slender, his pale skin set off by the dark curls atop his head. He was dressed impeccably in slim black trousers and a cutaway coat with a crisp shirt and deep purple waistcoat. John’s eyes were drawn to his mouth. A pink bow that was nearly feminine in its fullness. John’s initial impression was of Snow White.

“Can you hear me?” John finally managed to say. He was shirtless, standing in his bedroom in nothing but his pants. Any thoughts of modesty had gone out the window.

“Obviously.” The deep baritone rumbled again.

“How?” John stepped closer to the glass and that is when he saw the man’s eyes. They were blue. No, not blue, they were green. Green wasn’t right either. Grey? They were all of those colors in varying degrees. John knew they were the kind of eyes that would change and shift and never stop being fascinating to look at. Eyes that you could get lost in. Eyes that could cut you to the quick and leave you bleeding.

“I’m not entirely sure. But its been happening for some time. You just never notice because John, you never look at yourself in the mirror. Your wife is quite another story. But she can’t see me or hear me – I’ve even shouted at her – nothing.”

“Wait, you know my name?” John sat on the end of the bed.

“Like I said, this has been going on for some time and I can hear you. I know your wife’s name is Mary. I know she loves the mirror, well, looking at herself in it anyway. Vain little thing. Pretty, but very narcissistic.”

“Oi! That’s my wife you’re talking about, whoever you are.” It didn’t help that the statement was true. John was starting to wonder if he hadn’t fallen in the shower and bashed his head. Am I unconscious on the loo floor, bleeding? 

“You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” John was keen to know what name his mind would make up for this apparition. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.” The apparition smiled. 

He slapped his own face hard enough to snap his head backwards. Okay, I’m conscious. That name was too ridiculous.

“No need to beat yourself. I am real, and I can hear and see you.” Sherlock went on, “There doesn’t seem to be any regular pattern to this,” he waved his hands to indicate the general shape of the mirror, “and the amount of time that I can see you varies with every occurrence.”

“Where are you?” That was the only question John could come up with at the moment.

“My family home, in Sussex. Where are you?” 

“Um, London. Central London, sort of between Hyde and Regent’s Parks.” John took in the way Sherlock was dressed and thought of another question. “When are you, what year is it?”

“1897.”


	4. The Other Side of the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You watch me sleep?” God, what else does he watch me, _us_ , do? John tried not to wonder too hard about that.

_“1897.”_

John let that process for a few seconds. That was one hundred and fifteen years ago. Victoria was Queen. Electricity was in its infancy as was the telephone and radio. What must Sherlock think of what he could see?

“What year is it for you?” Sherlock didn’t seem particularly perturbed.

“Its 2012.” John got up and went closer to the mirror. He could actually see into the room behind Sherlock. 

It was a disaster – there wasn’t a surface that wasn’t cluttered with loose papers, books, bottles of cloudy liquids, boards with insects pinned to them, some sort of powder on the floor by a desk, scales, a mortar and pestle, a microscope and God knew what else. There was a skull on the mantle.

“Is that a real skull?” John asked. 

Sherlock smirked, “I have to have someone to talk to, don’t I? No one else listens.”

“Oh,” John didn’t know what to say. “Right. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty five.” Sherlock stepped away and John followed his movement back into the room. He watched as Sherlock took a violin off of a chair and dragged the chair over to the mirror. He sat down. “There, now we can have a proper chat. So, was it Afghanistan or Iraq? You haven’t answered my question.”

“Afghanistan. But how could you know about that?” John rubbed at the scar on his shoulder. He could still feel it itch, at least he thought he could. “How do you know I was wounded there?” He sat down on the end of his bed.

“Marconi’s Wireless Telegraph and Signal Company was a success, I assume? I heard about the current state of affairs there over the wireless. Also, I can see your uniform hanging in the wardrobe. I can hear you, at night. You have nightmares about it. I’ve heard your cry out in your sleep.”

“You watch me sleep?” God, what else does he watch me, us, do? John tried not to wonder too hard about that. 

“I don’t sleep much, so when this connection is open at night, I watch what happens on your side. The times don’t seem to align every time, however. Sometimes its midday for me and the middle of the night for you.”

“What about the violin then?” John remembered the music he’d heard. The music he thought he’d dreamed. “Oh my God, it was you I heard that night, wasn’t it? That Marvin Gaye song, I suppose you heard that on the radio too? And you could just play it back?” John took clarinet lessons, and did alright with it, but he always envied people who could play by ear.

“Yes, I like your musical choices much better than Mary’s. ‘The Beastly Boys’? Indeed, and ‘ _Lady_ Gaga’? I doubt that entirely.” He fetched his violin and ran off a few notes of Bad Romance. “Horrid.” He then played a sample of Imagine. “I quite like that one. It is sad, but hopeful at the same time.”

“That’s John Lennon. You’re amazing.” John finally asked the question that mattered.

“Why is this happening? My wife bought this thing second hand, not from some sorcerer. I hated it when she first had it brought here. And now I’m standing here talking to someone in 1897. I’ve gone insane, haven’t I?” John started to pace.

“Clearly you haven’t. I don’t have an explanation for why this is happening, but it is happening and it’s fascinating.” Sherlock eyes danced. “The interval between events is irregular. The duration of events varies. And sometimes I can see you but not hear you and vice versa. Your wife can’t see or hear me.” He’d steepled his hands under his chin as he spoke. “Maybe its something atmospheric or electrical.” He paused. “Or perhaps it is related to us. Something specifically about the two of us.”

“Maybe we have the same blood type?” John was intrigued. “Or could we be related?”

“Blood type?” Sherlock focused back on John’s face.

“I guess that is still a few years off for you. Everyone has a blood type. Different antigens on the surface of your red blood cells.” John realized he could be messing with the time line, but Star Trek and the Prime Directive be-damned, what harm could he do talking about blood types and antigens?

“I wouldn’t have the first idea of what my blood type is. I suppose it is possible we are related somehow. The way my father sows his seeds around, it’ll be a wonder if half of the next generation isn’t a Holmes. ” Sherlock got to his feet and circled the chair. He sat back down. “Our laundress has a 5 year old son who looks enough like me that his paternity is obvious and the gardener has a granddaughter who is also a patently a Holmes. The unfortunate little thing looks like Mycroft, my brother.”

John thought about his next question.

“So, why all the equipment?” He gestured to the barely contained disaster behind Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood and removed his cutaway coat and waistcoat, dropping them over the chair. “I am a chemist. I studied at Cambridge. I like to experiment.” 

His mouth dropped open and his eyes grew wide. “I want to try one now. “ He turned and rummaged around on one of the tables. “Here!” He was holding up a piece of chalk. 

“What’s that for?” John asked him.

“I want to try something.” Sherlock tipped the mirror, his mirror, away from the wall which made the image John was looking at sway and spin. The action was violent enough to make John feel like he was falling off the bed.

“Hey! Warn me the next time you move the mirror, will you?” John stood up and stood directly in front of the mirror. 

This angle afforded him a better view of Sherlock’s quarters. There was a bed, rumpled and un-made, a wardrobe, a washstand and a pair of large windows. Clutter spilled off every surface onto the floor.

John could hear Sherlock doing something; a sort of tapping-scraping sound was coming from his side.

“I’m going to set the mirror back, John.” Sherlock warned and the imaged spun again. “Look at the back of your mirror.”

John stepped up and turned his mirror around. “There’s a drawing.” He returned the mirror to it original position to find Sherlock beaming at him. 

“It worked.” Sherlock and John sat down and stared at each other, one-hundred and fifteen years of time and space between them.

On the back of the mirror was a drawing of a beehive.


	5. One Way Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stood transfixed in the foot of his bed, watching the silent scene play out before him. He’d never felt more helpless in his life. 
> 
> Note: Sherlock gets beaten in this chapter. You have been warned.

“Let me try.” John went to the kitchen and took the chalk from the small message board that Mary kept there.

Tipping the mirror away from the wall, he wrote his name. John Hamish Watson. He replaced the mirror and waited for Sherlock to look at the back.

From the look on his face, John knew it hadn’t worked. He asked anyway. “Nothing?” Sherlock shook his head.

There was a hissing and a pop. John looked back over his shoulder because It had sounded like a light bulb had burned out. When he turned back, Sherlock was gone and John was looking at himself. “Damn.”

His day off was turning out to be rather interesting after all.

He finished dressing and went to sit in front of his laptop to do some research on 1897 and see if he could find out anything about Sherlock Holmes.

Ancestry.com was his first stop. He wanted to check census records and see if there were any living Holmeses he could contact. There was a census taken in the UK in 1891 and sure enough, Sherlock was there. He was 19 and his employment status was listed as “student”. So, Cambridge then, but he must have been home the day before the data was collected to have been enumerated in Sussex County. 

Also listed was the brother Sherlock had mentioned – Mycroft – who was seven years older than Sherlock. His occupation was listed simply as “government auditor” and his marital status as “bachelor”. His parents were listed too: Sigurd Holmes, “squire” and Marguerite Holmes (nee´: Pascal). Not much to go on, really. 

Sherlock alluded to the fact that his father had at least two children outside of his marriage, but didn’t offer any solid information about the children’s mothers, so that was a dead end. Not that a woman in that time period would have given her out-of-wedlock child its father’s name.

John moved on to the census that was taken ten years later in 1901, but didn’t find Sherlock’s name. He checked outside Sussex County but couldn’t find any further mention of him. Mycroft was there, age 36, and was listed as a bachelor, no children. Sigurd and Marguerite must have died in the ten years since the last census, because they were absent as well.

John had to decide how much to tell Sherlock, if he chose to tell him anything at all about what he’d found out. Did Sherlock leave England before the next census? Did he die? Strangely, that thought upset John. Maybe he just misplaced the forms; from what he saw of Sherlock’s room, that seemed plausible.

John would also have to decide how much to tell Sherlock about how the world had changed in the intervening 115 years. Being a casual sci-fi fan made him a bit wary of telling too much. Maybe he was being ridiculous. What could it hurt to show him a cell phone or a television? He’d already said he could hear things on the radio, “No, the wireless. He called it the wireless.” What would he think of the way that term was used today? He’d also had to have seen either John or Mary use a cell phone or laptop.

The idea that he was speaking to a man who was living in 1897 baffled John. He couldn’t begin to fathom why it was happening in the first place. There must be something about them specifically that made it possible. Its not like there was a raging electrical storm or solar flares happening every time the connection was open. 

So, what was happening in the 1890’s? John did what anybody in 2012 would do. He Googled it. 

He found out that Guglielmo Marconi did in fact send the first ever wireless communication over open sea and that the The Wireless Telegraph & Signal Company Sherlock mentioned was an actual thing. The cathode ray tube had already been invented, so the telly might not be hard to explain. Noble gasses had been discovered as well as x-rays, and the first vaccine for bubonic plague was developed.

Queen Victoria celebrated her Diamond Jubilee, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil was Prime Minister, Bram Stoker published Dracula, and Oscar Wilde was released from prison. The Tube was in service. The world’s first fingerprint bureau was opened in Calcutta and the incandescent light bulb was invented.

The last few decades of the 19th century were full of scientific and technological advances. Sherlock was living in interesting times. John wanted to show Sherlock how many discoveries and inventions had happened in the intervening years. 

To that end, he decided to put together a few items to have on hand for the next time he could talk to Sherlock.

He left the flat and went to work to retrieve some x-rays. Doctor/patient confidentiality surely only extended to the time period in which the films were taken, right? What could Sherlock reveal to anybody about what he could see in an x-ray? He chose some nice ones: a broken arm, a total hip arthroplasty, and one of a young man who had been so distraught by his girlfriend’s refusal of his proposition of marriage, that he’d swallowed the engagement ring. When he got home, she slipped the x-ray film files under a pile of his folded jumpers in the closet.

The rest of what he wanted to show Sherlock he could find in the flat. All he had to do now was wait.

He listened for the hissing-pop sound for days. Days grew into a week. Sometimes he’d listen so intently he wouldn’t hear Mary speaking to him.

“- two weeks from this Friday, alright?” Mary realized John wasn’t paying attention to her. They were getting ready for bed. “John? Did you hear a word I said?”

“Yes, “ he mumbled. He hadn’t heard anything before ‘this Friday’. “Friday is fine.”

“For what?” She prodded.

“I’m sorry, I must have drifted off a bit. Thinking about work.” He covered.

“I said there is an open house for the loft I staged. The flats go on sale soon and the builder wants to have a reception to show them off. There will be food and music. It will be fun, you can meet some of the people I work with.” Mary sounded excited about it, so John tried to sound excited too.

“Sure, we haven’t been out in public together in a while. We can make it a date. Do I have to wear a tie?”

“Yes you do Doctor Watson. I want to show you off, and you do look awfully handsome in a suit.”

“Suit?” He protested but stopped when he saw how her face fell. “Alright, I’ll wear a suit. I’ll be fancy for your fancy friends.” He kissed her and turned down the sheets. “Now, get into bed, Mrs. Watson and I will pay attention to your every sigh and murmur.”

In the morning while Mary was showering, the hissing-pop finally came.

John was made painfully aware of what Sherlock had said about sometimes being able to see the other side, but not hear what was going on.

It appeared to be later in the day on the other side and Sherlock wasn’t alone. There was another man, about the same age, with him and they were arguing, heatedly, from the look of things. The other man was pointing his finger at Sherlock and was probably shouting. His posture said so anyway. He had one foot planted in front of the other and was leaning over Sherlock who was seated and was now jabbing his right index finger into Sherlock’s chest. 

With no warning the young man drew back his right arm and back-handed Sherlock across the face. He saw the hand coming, but did nothing to stop it. In the moment before the blow landed, Sherlock looked at John, sorrow and embarrassment clearly showing in his eyes. John wasn’t meant to see this. The man was wearing a ring on that hand and it caught Sherlock squarely in the mouth. Blood began to flow from Sherlock’s lips.

John stood transfixed in the foot of his bed, watching the silent scene play out before him. He’d never felt more helpless in his life. The water turned off in the shower and Mary would be coming in to get dressed soon. John needed to pull himself together.

Sherlock got up out of the chair and began to pace the room, the other man followed, still shouting. He’d broken out in a sweat and the veins in his neck were clearly standing out. Sherlock stopped, shook his head and said something that set the other man off again. He shoved Sherlock, who tripped on a tangle of bedding on the floor and went down onto his elbows and backside.

Mary came out of the bathroom and began to dress, babbling all the while to John about the up coming open house reception. “It will be a great opportunity for me to showcase what I do. I could get hired not just to stage places but to design their flats.” On and on she went, never noticing her husband, frozen and staring at the mirror. He tried to nod and make positive noises in the right places. She was so engrossed in her own narrative that nothing seemed off to her. “I’ll make coffee, come down when you’re ready.” And she flounced out of the room.

John let out the breath he’d been holding and stepped closer to the glass. He couldn’t shout, Mary would hear him.

Who ever the other man was had found a riding crop somewhere in the room and was beating Sherlock with it. John could see every stroke as they made contact with his shoulders and upper arms. He could also see the tears that started to flow down Sherlock’s pale cheeks. Sherlock still did nothing to defend or protect himself.

John made a fist and banged on the glass, but Sherlock’s assailant didn’t hear anything. He did stop using the crop. He threw it to the side and grabbed Sherlock by the throat, dragging him to his feet. He wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, but still seemed to loom over him. John could see the tendons in the man’s wrists standing out in sharp relief – he was gripping Sherlock hard enough to choke him to death. Sherlock’s eyes began to roll up into his head and that seemed to frighten the attacker somewhat, because he let go.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and fell forward onto his hands, coughing and obviously struggling for breath.

John was panicked. He hated that he could see what was happening but was powerless to stop it. It went against everything he’d learned as a doctor and soldier and a man. All he could do was watch and hope that Sherlock understood that even though John was ages away, he was still there with him.

The man then did the most perverse thing John could imagine. He helped Sherlock to his feet, drew him in close and kissed his bleeding mouth. The kiss didn’t bother him. It was soft and intimate, like he’d done it before. The last thing he did was to lick the blood off of Sherlock’s mouth and chin. That is what bothered John. It was like the man was somehow staking a claim on Sherlock, or marking him in reverse.

The man left.

Sherlock didn’t move, but did turn to look John in the eye. Tears still ran down his face and there was blood on his shirt. He looked broken. John could see the red marks on Sherlock’s pale neck that would surely turn an ugly purple by tomorrow.

John mouthed the words “Are you alright?” as clearly as he could. He didn’t know if Sherlock could hear him or not. Sherlock nodded and placed a hand to his throat. It was killing John that he couldn’t treat Sherlock’s injuries. His lip looked like it needed suturing.

Sherlock took the few steps to the chair on shaky legs and sat down. He leaned forward, placed his face in his hands and John knew he was crying from the way his shoulders were shaking.

Hiss-pop and the image was gone.

“No! Goddamnit!” John shouted. “Fuck!”

“What?” Mary came in looking concerned. “What happened?”

John thought quickly and said, “The hospital needs me to work a double today, they just called.” He crossed his mental fingers that she buy it.

She did. “I’m sorry, maybe it will be a quiet day? The extra money will be nice.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

All John could think of while on shift was the beating the stranger had given Sherlock. He worried not only about the physical injuries, but the emotional state he must be in.

He hoped the mirror would not make him wait too long to see if Sherlock was all right. He desperately wanted to talk to him and make sure.

 

It was just over two weeks before he had the chance.


	6. Mirror Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn’t be turning me on, John thought. But dear sweet Jesus, it was.

John waited and he worried. 

A week went by and he hadn’t seen or heard anything from Sherlock. It was entirely possible that the connection was open while John wasn’t at home, so he got in the habit of leaving the radio in the bedroom on while he was away. He tuned it to the news, mostly, so Sherlock could hear what was going on in 2012.

Finally, out of desperation, he left a note stuck to the mirror asking that Sherlock write something on the back of the mirror to let John know he was all right. The note was of course written as a reminder to John to “pick up Mary’s dry cleaning after shift” on the front, and a simple beehive and “?” on the back. John hoped that if Sherlock saw it he would deduce what John wanted – needed – for him to do.

Two days later he was rewarded with another beehive drawn in chalk on the mirror’s reverse. He’d forgotten the dry cleaning two days in a row and Mary had yelled at him for it, but it was worth the extra walk just to know Sherlock was alive.

Another week passed with no sight of Sherlock. John was less worried, but still longed to talk to Sherlock, face to face.

*

Mary invited her mother over for dinner the Thursday before Mary’s big open house. 

God, how John hated having his mother-in-law to dinner. The woman never shut up. Nature abhors a vacuum and Mrs. Adeline Morstan felt it was her job to fill in any gaps with the sound of her voice. Her grating, cigarette-roughened voice.

She started off as soon as she arrived at the flat. “You know Johnny, you two really should get a bigger flat. If you have children, they’ll never fit in here.” John could smell the cigarette she had on their doorstep. He refused to let her smoke in his home. She insisted on calling him ‘Johnny’, it drove him round the twist. He was an adult for Christ’s sake.

“Nice to see you too, Adeline.” John dodged the kiss she tried to peck onto his cheek by turning and saying “Mary’s in the kitchen, why don’t you go catch up? I’m going to go clean up a bit.”

While Mary and her mother were in the kitchen John went to the bedroom to take a deep breath and get hold of his temper, as well as change his shirt and freshen up.

Sherlock was there. John quietly closed the door.

John took a deep breath and said, “Are you alright? I have been worried.”

“Yes, John. I am fine. I’m sorry you have been worried.” Sherlock looked fine, tired, but fine. “Thank you.”

“Come closer to the glass, I want to see for myself.” John stepped closer himself. “Open the collar of your shirt.” Sherlock did. There were only the faintest yellow-green tinges left from where he’d been choked. 

“Let me see your lip.” John motioned for him to lean in closer. He was struck again by the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock held his gaze long enough to make John actually blush.

“That should have been sutured, but it seems to have closed up fine. You’ll have a scar, though.” And he would; a small circular one just under the right side of his bottom lip. 

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about, then?” John backed up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Who the hell was that and why did you let him beat you? You didn’t fight back, you never even raised a defensive hand to him.”

Sherlock sighed, “That was Victor. Victor Trevor. We went to Cambridge together. His father didn’t approve of me, or our relationship. Victor and I were lovers for a time. On a visit to their home, I deduced some things about Mr. Trevor’s own realtionships that were rather embarrassing and felt I should leave. Seven weeks later, the man was dead. I broke off my relationship with Victor. He was here trying to rekindle what we had. I told him no. I told him I wasn’t willing to hide anymore, to act like something I’m not. He couldn’t accept that. He asked if there was someone else. When I didn’t answer, that’s what enraged him.”

“So, you let him beat you?” John was confused.

“It is more complicated than that. Victor likes certain things. He likes it when I fight back, it arouses him. If I had fought back he wouldn’t have stopped. Acting defenseless was my only defense. He is ill and dangerous.” Sherlock paused a moment. “John, It could have ended much worse.”

“I think I understand.” John was still bothered by the whole thing. He sighed. “What now?”

“With Mycroft’s help, I have relocated. I’m living in London now. I was worried that the connection would somehow be lost if the mirror was moved. I’m glad it hasn’t been.”

“Me too. Where in London?” John asked. 

“Baker Street.”

“Wait, that is right around the corner, more or less, from where I am now.” John was trying to see past Sherlock into his new rooms. It looked just about the same to John; there was still items scattered all over every available surface. The skull was there on the new mantle. “Maybe I’ll go by sometime.”

“Why? I won’t be there.” 

“Just curiosity, Sherlock. To see where you actually lived.” The use of the past tense tugged at John’s heart, perhaps more than it should have. Going by Sherlock’s flat would drive home the fact that they would never meet. Sherlock was long dead, no matter what John was seeing in the mirror. 

“Oh.” The same thought seemed to dawn on Sherlock also.

“My wife’s mother is here. I can’t stay much longer, they will wonder why I’m taking so long to change my shirt and come looking for me.” John didn’t want to go back downstairs. He wanted to stay till the connection closed. 

John got a fresh shirt from the closet and remembered the x-rays he’d hidden. “I have some things to show you, but they will have to wait till next time I guess.”

The mirror made its now familiar hiss-pop and Sherlock was gone. “Next time,” John repeated to no one but himself.

He went back down stairs and suffered through the onslaught of questions from his mother-in-law: “When are you quitting that horrible job at the A&E? When are you two going to make me a grandmother? When are you moving to a bigger place?” On and on it went. She complained. About everything - the weather, the traffic, politics – even Mary’s cooking. She kept calling him Johnny. 

Finally after dessert and coffee, she said, “I should be on my way and I’m simply gasping for a cigarette. I know how you hate it when I smoke Johnny, but who wants to quit something they are good at?”

“That’s why I don’t want to quit my job at the A&E, Adeline. I’m good at it. Damned good, in fact. And I love it.” He was a bit harsher in his tone than he meant to be, but he was at the end of his tether for the evening.

“Well, you don’t have to be rude about it, _Doctor Watson_. Mary, thank you for having me to dinner.” She kissed Mary, put on her coat and stomped out of the flat.

“John! You were horrible to her!” Mary was being just loud enough so her mother could hear her. She was smiling at her husband; Mary knew John was never going to get along with her mother. Her father barely got along with her.  
“Leave the dishes, I’ll do them in the morning. She exhausts me. Let’s go to bed,” John linked hands with his wife and took her upstairs.

 

*

 

The open house wasn’t as bad as John feared. People were complimenting Mary on a job well done, and he was happy to see her enjoying the spotlight. The loft really was spectacular; he wouldn’t mind living there but there was no way they could afford it. There was good food and better wine and the people Mary worked with weren’t as abrasive as John had imagined they would be.

Mary had several jobs offered to her during the course of the night and she accepted each. This really was turning into her night. Her boss was happy for her, joking that he’d soon be losing her and he’d be left high and dry. Mary re-assured him she wasn’t going anywhere and he gave her a kiss. Not a very chaste one either, in John’s opinion.

When they got home, they were both a little bit past “a little bit drunk”. They stumbled into the flat peeling off each other’s clothing and leaving a trail to the bedroom. Wrapped in each other and nearly naked, John turned her around in his arms so that he was holding her from behind and she was facing the mirror.

He finished getting her out of most of her clothes – all that was left were her frilly panties and high heeled shoes - and began to kiss her neck. She purred.

“Oh, John, that feels so nice.” She ground her backside into his growing hard-on. “Mmm, that feels nice too.” He grasped her by the hips and pulled her closer, increasing the pressure.

He moved the hair from her shoulder and kissed there too. She shivered. “Do you like that too?” He asked.

“Yes.” 

“Yes.”

John heard two voices answer his question. Mary’s girlish giggle and a deep baritone rumble.

Sherlock was there, watching them. All he was wearing was a silky dressing gown that was barely being held closed by the tie.

John froze for a moment then he continued to kiss Mary’s shoulders and stroking her arms. “Like this?” He asked.

Again, the two voices answering. John brought his right arm around to circle Mary’s waist and press her even more firmly back into his cock, his other hand came up to cup her right breast. He took the nipple between his fingers and rolled it a bit, getting it to harden. 

Everywhere John touched Mary, Sherlock touched himself. He stroked his long fingers up and down his arms through the silky robe. He reached inside the garment and grazed his palm across his chest, stopping to pinch at his own nipple.

John stroked up Mary’s body to caress her throat and Sherlock did the same, tipping his head back, running his fingers into his wild hair and actually moaning.

 _This shouldn’t be turning me on_ , John thought. But dear sweet Jesus, it was. He unfastened his belt and shoved his trousers down his legs. Now that his hard cock was free, he pressed it between Mary’s thighs and with her still in her shoes every thing fit together very nicely. 

Mary tipped he head back onto John's shoulder, turned her head and whispered in his ear, “Make me come right here, standing up.” John reached down between her legs, stroked and answered her, “If that is what you’d like.” He put his hand inside the tiny scrap of lace that could hardly be considered underwear and began to slip his fingers into her warmth. She was soaking wet.

He watched as Sherlock palmed the front of his robe, pressing against his obvious erection, mimicking what John was doing to Mary. He gripped himself over the fabric and gave himself a single stroke.

All three of them groaned with pleasure. 

Sherlock opened the gown and took himself in hand and began to stroke himself with the same rhythm John was using on Mary. John had seen men masturbate before; there was very little privacy while on deployment to Afghanistan and the soldiers would take care of their business when they could. He’d never seen a man this beautiful do it though.

_Now I consider him beautiful? When did that happen?_

Sherlock matched John stroke for stroke and echoed Mary’s every moan and gasp. 

She was losing the ability to hold herself upright as she got closer to orgasm. “John, John I’m so close, I’m going to come. Oh John, ohgodjohn, yes, there, don’t stop…” John held her up as best he could while trying to keep him self lodged between her thighs. He’d never finish this way. He gave up trying and focused on Mary.

He wrapped his free arm around her waist and concentrated his attention on getting her to come. Sherlock’s eyes were on them both, but he had slowed his hand.

“Tell me, are you close?” John asked both of them.

Both Mary and Sherlock answered, “Yes”. 

“Then let go and come for me.”

Mary arched and called out John’s name as she came, shuddering in his arms.

Sherlock stopped entirely. He took a deep breath and dropped his hand to his side. His cock stood out from his body. The foreskin was retracted and John could see the precome that had slicked the head.

“Oh Jesus,” was all John could say. John didn’t know if he was more turned on by Mary watching herself come or by what Sherlock was doing to himself while John watched.

Mary turned and pushed John down to sit on the bed. She dragged his trousers the rest of the way off of his legs, pushed his thighs apart and nestled down between them.

John watched as Sherlock dropped to his knees in imitation of Mary.

Mary grinned up at John, saying, “I watched you make me come, now it’s your turn.” She took his hard and flushed cock in her mouth and sucked.

“Oh Jesus, yes please.” John leaned back on his elbows but didn’t take his eyes off the image in the mirror. 

Sherlock stroked himself with his long fingers: a twist at the end of the upstroke, a flick of his thumb over the wet tip, a sigh of pleasure. It all went together to drive John to the edge. John was sighing right along with Sherlock, Mary unaware that what she was doing was only part of what was pushing him to climax. 

John ran his fingers into Mary's blond hair and wondered if Sherlock’s hair was a soft as it looked. He pressed himself up into her mouth and Sherlock followed with a thrust of his hips towards the mirror. John could see the end of his prick as it slid through he ring of Sherlock’s fist.

He groaned. This was the most obscenely sexy thing he’d ever experienced. His wife was sucking him off and this odd, out-of-time man was stroking himself, fucking John’s mind as well.

Sherlock leaned forward and placed his free hand on the glass for support, John could see the flattened spots on his hand where flesh made contact with the solid surface of the mirror. 

Mary bobbed her head faster and Sherlock pumped his hand to match. His head dropped forward and touched the mirror. John could see where his breath fogged the glass. He could see sweat trailing down Sherlock’s temple.

“Mary, please, I… I,” He trailed off.

Sherlock was humming, a low, almost sub-aural rumble was coming from somewhere in his chest. He threw back his head and let out the moan that was locked in his chest. Come splattered the glass.

“Oh my God! Shhh.” John held Mary’s head in place and came in her mouth. “Ahhhhgh.” He very nearly said Sherlock’s name.

Mary made a disgusted grunt and let go of John’s still pulsing cock, running to the bathroom. John finished himself with a pair of quick strokes and fell back on the bed. He could hear Mary spit in the sink and run the water to rinse her mouth. He went to her and Sherlock’s laughter followed him. It was positively devilish.

After John apologized for not giving her fair warning and a good round with her toothbrush, Mary calmed down and they went to bed. Sherlock was gone.

* 

In the morning, while Mary was making coffee, John tipped the mirror away from the wall and saw, written in chalk:

“I would have swallowed.”


	7. Deep Dark Truthful Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a walk and does some thinking.

“I would have swallowed.” Four words written on the back of the mirror in chalk. _Jesus_.

The thought of Sherlock doing what Mary never would makes John’s head swim, and his dick more than a little bit hard.

Am I having an affair with a man who has been dead for over a hundred years? Is this my life now?

John can still picture Sherlock touching himself and that brings his burgeoning erection from a little bit hard to all the way hard in a few heartbeats.

“Right. Shower, now.” He marched into the bathroom and ran the water, a little cooler than is comfortable. “Don’t think about it.” John calms himself with the routine of everyday life: shampoo, shave, clean the teeth, get dressed.

Downstairs he can hear Mary on the phone. She made loads of contacts for work last night at the open house and from the sound of things, she was busy setting up appointments to meet with clients. John puts on his best neutral face and goes down to join her.

“Yes, Wednesday is good, say two o’clock? Right, see you then.” Mary ends her call and smiles at John, “Morning, sleepy.” She kisses his cheek and gave his bum a squeeze. 

“I’m sorry again, about last night. What you were doing just felt so good,” He brushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear, “I just lost control of myself. I was, um, distracted.” He looked into her eyes and returned her kiss. “We’re good?”

“Yes, we’re good. I guess I overreacted a bit. There’s coffee if you want it and I’ll make you toast and an egg, if you like.”

“Yes, please.” He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when her phone chimed on the table.

“That thing has been ringing non-stop all morning.” She was having a hard time concealing her glee. “I have appointments with potential clients almost everyday next week. I am very popular suddenly.” She picked up the phone, “Barbara! Yes, yes I know! I have been making appointments all morning. People have been calling the firm too? We had better compare calendars so I don’t have any time conflicts.” She smiled over at John and gave him a thumbs-up. “Lunch today would be good. See you then Barb.”

She rang off. “That was Barbara from the office. She say’s people have been calling and leaving messages wanting appointments. I need to go in, just for a bit, to make sure I haven’t over-extended myself next week. We are doing lunch. Alright?”

“Fine.” He sipped his coffee, “Your boss, what’s his name? David? He must be happy.” John didn’t really like the way David hovered around Mary at the party. “You are his star employee. Lots of new business coming his way.”

“Yes, he thinks I’ll leave and start my own interior design firm. I like where I am and don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.” She moved to put bread in the toaster and cracked an egg into a pan on the stove. “Over easy?”

“Yes, that’s fine. I think he has a bit of a crush on you.” John took a sip of his coffee. 

Mary paused, “Don’t be silly, he’s my boss.” She shook some pepper on the egg in the pan. Changing the subject, she asked, “What have you got on for today?” 

“Nothing. Thought I might go out for a walk or something.” John wanted to see if the shop Mary purchased the mirror from knew anything about the Holmes family. It was a shot in the dark, but they may know something. He sipped more coffee as she set the egg on toast in front of him. “Have a nice time with Barbara.” 

 

*

 

It was an easy thing to check their bank account to find the name of the shop: Aladdin’s Furniture. It was close enough, a short Tube ride to the Crouch Hill station. It was Saturday and he had nowhere in particular he needed to be.

John stepped through he door, making the bell over the door ring and glanced around the shop. Loads of furniture stuffed into every available space, chandeliers by the score hanging from the ceiling and all the available shelf space taken up with tea sets, lamps, figurines, busts and every kind of knick-knack imaginable.

“Hello, may I help you?” A grey-haired gentleman in a tweed jacket approached John. “Looking for anything in particular? We have a little bit of everything.” He swept his arm, indicating the organized clutter in the shop.

“Um, I’m hoping you can help me with something my wife purchased about 3 months ago.”

“All sales are final, no refunds.” The man was grinning and obviously enjoyed his job. 

“Oh no, I’m not looking to return it, I was rather hoping you could tell me about where it came from?” John gave the man a crooked smile.

“I can try. We don’t usually have much information about the pieces we get in.” He paused. “Where are my manners? Let me introduce my self. I’m Clive Evans and I run the place. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“John Watson, nice to meet you.” John stuck out his hand and Clive shook it. “Tea would be lovely.”

Clive led John to a small table set up like company was always expected and went about the task of making tea. “Please, sit. This won’t take a minute. What was the item you are curious about?”

“A mirror. Great big thing. Almost the size of a door. Dark wood frame carved with vines and flowers. There’s even a big snake.” John should have taken a picture to bring with him. “And a date in one corner – ‘1895’”.

“Yes, I remember the piece and we did get some back-story on that one.” Clive’s lively expression darkened a bit. “Came in a big lot we got at auction in Sussex.” He set two teacups on the table, “Sugar?”

“No, just milk.” John took his tea and sipped. “What can you tell me about it?”

Clive sat and thought for a moment, “Well, like I said, it came in a big lot we got at auction. The Holmes estate sat vacant for quite a few decades, but the place was tended to. There was a stipend set aside to keep the place up. The other items that we acquired – a wardrobe, dining table and chairs, silver tea service, sideboard – were all exceptional.” He thought for a moment, “and an old Victorian-era microscope that is lovely, if you like that sort of thing.”

_Sherlock’s_ microscope. My God.

John tried not to look too anxious, “Really? Do you know anything about the family that the items came from?”

“That’s the interesting part. At the auction there were quite a few people in attendance who were ‘wagging their tongues’, like my mum would have said, about the family’s circumstances. People love a tragedy.”

“Tragedy? What happened?” John wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more.

“Oh you know, philandering master of the house, rumors of bastard children all over the county, wife that turned a blind eye and drank too much. One son went into government the other killed himself. The younger boy was a bit a scandalous, to hear the locals talk about it.”

John’s heart sank. That would explain Sherlock not appearing in the 1901 census records. Oh God, he killed himself? John was sick at the thought.  
“Killed himself? Did anybody know when?” John’s mouth was dry.

“Sometime right before the turn of the century, 1898 or ‘99 maybe?” 

So, soon, in terms of Sherlock’s time-line.

“You said the microscope is lovely. You still have it then?” If it was still here, John knew he’d be taking it home with him, whatever it cost.

“Yes, its till available. Would you like to se it?” Clive stood and moved to the counter where the register stood. He pressed the ‘No Sale’ key on the antique machine and took out a set of small keys. Sorting through them, he selected one and turned to unlock the cabinet behind him.

“Here it is.” He sat the microscope case on the counter. “It’s a Baker 224 High Holborn. Specifically, the Baker-Nelson number 2 model, I Googled it.” He winked and opened the case. John’s breath caught in his throat.

Clive was right, it was a lovely instrument. The brass was gleaming and the mirror was intact. It looked as if Sherlock had put it away just yesterday. There were slots inside the case for extra eye-pieces and slides. On the inside of the door there was a small brass plaque: Sherlock Holmes.

“There, you can see the name of the owner. Funny name, that. ‘Sherlock’. Those Victorians.” Clive shook his head and looked at John, “You alright lad? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

John almost giggled at that. _You have no idea_. “Yes, I’m fine. It is for sale?” He was reaching for his wallet as he spoke. 

“Yes, I’m asking 250 quid.” He paused, “I can do 220. Best offer.”

“I’ll take it.” 

Clive latched the case closed, rang up the transaction and carefully packed the item into a box. “Would you like a bag?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Its not too big.” John actually felt better hugging the box to his chest for the trip home. “Thank you so much for the information, and the tea.” 

“Ta. I’m glad you found out what you needed.” Clive gave him a small wave.

John let his feet carry him. Home wasn’t that far and the walk would give him time to think. His emotions were in a whirl. He knew for certain now that Sherlock was going to die; sooner rather than later.

What should he tell Sherlock, if anything at all? _'Cheers mate, I just learned you are going to commit suicide, how’s your day?'_ Would telling him about it prevent it from happening or was it set in stone? 

As he walked he shifted the box in his arms. He was holding something that Sherlock had owned and had obviously been dear to him. It had been cared for, polished and kept safe in its case. Holding it was as close as he would ever get to holding Sherlock himself. He’d never be able to touch his pale skin and soft lips…

_God, since when do I think things like that? I’m straight, I love women; the way they look, the way they feel, smell and taste But…_

Last night sort of threw his sexuality into question. The thought of Sherlock stroking himself while Mary went down on him was turning him on again. Surely it had been a combination of too much wine and Mary sucking his cock; something she rarely ever did. But the arousal had started before Mary took him into her mouth. It started when he was stroking her and all he could see was Sherlock in the mirror, mimicking his every move and responding to his questions. John had gotten impossibly hard watching Sherlock pleasure himself.

_“Tell me, are you close?”_ He’d asked, now wondering who he had really put the question to – Sherlock or Mary? They had both eagerly answered, “Yes.” Mary came but Sherlock had stopped stroking himself and waited to time his climax with John’s. The sight of Sherlock ejaculating onto the glass is what pulled John’s own orgasm thundering out of him.

He had only spoken with Sherlock a mere handful of times, but felt drawn to him. Sherlock seemed lonely. Even though he was married, John felt alone al lot of the time. To a certain extent, his life seemed like it was happening around him. It felt more and more as if Mary, and her awful mother, were trying to direct his life in a way that best suited them.

Is Mary really in love with me, or the idea of being married to a doctor? John had wondered this a few times during his marriage. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Something else he was beginning to wonder about was the pregnancy scare they’d had just before he enlisted. Had she lied to him to trap him? If the baby had been a lie, he had fallen for it. He took her word that she was pregnant and didn’t ask to verify it with a test. He was a doctor, he knew better. His heart and his innate sense of ‘do the right thing’ got in the way. What other lies was she capable of telling?

God.

Was she trying to trap him again with the talk about starting his own practice? He loved the excitement of working in the A&E. Never knowing what was coming through the doors thrilled him. It let him practice all sorts of different medicine instead of choosing one thing to specialize in. Even family medicine would become boring eventually. There were only so many cases of Chicken Pox and questionable moles he could deal with. He wanted to feel vital and being in the middle of a crisis situation filled that need. If he left that, he would be trapped by a life filled with boredom.

I guess I’m an adrenaline junkie. ‘Thrill issues’ a therapist might say.

His mind drifted back to Sherlock.

The feelings he had for Sherlock were so scrambled up in his mind it made his head spin. It was the perfect affair, really. He would never be able to physically be with Sherlock, so it wasn’t cheating, was it? It was like looking at dirty magazines or porn on the Internet. If the opportunity presented itself again, would he respond in the same way?

He’d never before looked at a man and wondered what it would feel like to kiss him or be touched intimately by him. John was ex-army and had seen things in the barracks and while on deployment. Some of the men would have a furtive wank in the dark of night or find release at the hand or mouth of another soldier, but John never did. He supposed at the time the men were just looking to erase the horror they were all living through any way they could. In the dark a hand or a mouth could belong anybody.

But the thought of _Sherlock_ touching him? Somehow that was different. He imagined Sherlock brushing a kiss onto his skin or caressing his scar with those long, elegant fingers. It made him shudder in a delicious way, sending prickles to the tips of his fingers and toes. He was pretty sure he was blushing, too.

He was deep inside his head and had been walking for a while, so he stopped, trying to get his bearings. Looking up to find the street name he wasn’t really surprised by what he read: “BAKER STREET W1”. He laughed and realized he had no idea which residence had been Sherlock’s. Not that he could knock on the door to say hello.

“I’ll have to ask him the next time I see him.” He continued home with a silly smile on his face.

 

*

 

Mary sighed and rolled off of David. “Fuck, that was lovely.” She snuggled up under his arm and threw her leg over his. She fished around and found the edge of the sheet, pulling it up over them. David was her boss and beginning three weeks ago, her lover.

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. “Do you think John suspects anything?”

“No, I told him I was going to lunch with Barbara to go over my schedule for next week.” Mary shifted a bit. “I really am going to be busy.”

“Wonderful.” David wriggled out of Mary’s grasp and got up to go to the bathroom. “I’ll have to make sure you get a nice big bonus come Christmas time.”


End file.
